writing in September, 1904, at Bourbonne-les-Bains, "I have pains when I move, and I am convinced that it's the end of my painting.  I will be unable to do anything.  You understand that under such conditions nothing can interest me any more."



Wildenstein & Co., Inc.  "A Loan Exhibition of Renoir for the Benefit of the New York Infirmary," March 23 - April 29, 1950.  Forward by Daniel Wildenstein.  Cover illustration, "Children at the Seashore (Guernsey)," 1892, Lent by the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Following the chronology in the Wildenstein catalogue from which the citation above is drawn, let it be understood that Renoir was not by nature an uhappy man or quick to complain; his spirits rallied later in 1904 with the triumph of the Renoir Hall at the Salon d'Autonmne.  In 1905, despite a stomach disease which aggravated his poor health, the Durand-Ruel exhibition in London was a great success, and several of Renoir's works were exhibited by Cassirer in Berlin.  When in 1912 a stroke deprived him of the use of his legs and arms, he went to Nice for treatment and for some time afterward continued to paint with his brushes tied to his hands. 

In Paris in 1919, the year he died, "one of his last joys was to be carried in his chair to the Louvre, where he could admire [his painting] the 'Portrait of Madame Charpentier.'"

I am not a big fan of Renoir (1841-1919), and whenever I see one of his young girls in a bonnet or with a kitten in her arms, I can't help thinking Kate Greenaway did a better job with the same subject matter.  I recall how much pleasure my mother derived from her extensive collection of Hummel Figurine kinder, which to my eye are so similar in style.  Therefore, reading Daniel's catalogue, I can see how I have overlooked much to admire in Renoir's work.  Now I think of the artist with paint brushes strapped to his hands and I am forced to reconsider his skill and technique.  It's never too late to learn.

Plus, as you are aware, I go where significance is revealed.  An old cardboard carton of art catalogues at a house sale, a passing reference in a news report, an overheard remark -- I am practically the Stan Mack of 1904! 

Postscript: at least one of the Renoirs in the Wildenstein & Co. exhibition was on loan from Georges Lurcy, a little known French-born Wall Street banker and investment counselor whose collection, sold by Parke-Bernet in 1957, would be written up as The Greatest Auction in Time Magazine in that year.  Journalists noted that Mrs. Henry Ford II whispered 'thank you' somewhat breathlessly to her husband when Renoir's 'sunny landscape' was knocked down to Mr. Ford's agent for an even $200,000. 

I once accompanied a silver soup tureen the size of a very large turkey ("bigger than a bread box" as we used to say) with its own seat on a flight back from Virginia where I'd been sent by my employer to fetch and bring it back to New York.  From the estate of the late Mrs. Georges Lurcy, an eighteenth century French silver soup tureen would have been worth a fortune in those days.  Alas, upon closer inspection the silversmith marks -- as is the case with so much French silver -- were determined to be fake.  Still, I felt as though I'd practically spent the day sitting next to the late great Georges himself.   Google him -- you'll find pages of endowed chairs, grants, fellowships and charitable trusts he set up.  Some people really know how to leave a legacy and spread the wealth. 

And just to date myself, when I started working in the art business, the record price for the most expensive item to be sold at auction in the world?  Mrs. Lurcy's diamond earrings.

As you can imagine, and by way of contrast, the Kate Greenaway collection of Estelle Doheny came in significantly under that record.  My mother's Hummel figurines were not, however, put on the block, and remain in private hands, so we will not be endowing any chairs any time soon.  In case you wondered.